Whiskey Tango Foxtrot
by Mug of Doodles
Summary: <html><head></head>Mo introduces MacCoy to the Dance Central tournament and underground life. MacCoy struggles to find himself and where he belongs. Priorities are misplaced. Hearts are broken. MoCoy and other pairings. Slight AngeCoy in the future.</html>
1. Meeting

**Well, here you dudes go. Theres no Dance Central fanfics that don't involve OCs or that are finished, or show promise of being finished. So enjoy. Reviews...they'd be swell. This will be on-going. Yea. Imma go crazy in this category. So, suck it up like a big ass glass of kool-aid. Also...I'm prolly gonna need help with this. Yep. Feel free to toss a dog a bone.**

**Warnings: This has an ass load of cussing, boy-love, and promises of potential buttsecks. Deal.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own MacCoy, Mo, Dance Central characters, concepts, bullshit yada yada. Not making money off of this shizz.**

"Hear ya dig dancin' pretty boy, well-let's _dance_," A rough voice barked.  
>Deep laughter followed suit. The sound of feet quickly shuffling together was all the teen heard before turning to greet a solid fist with his face.<p>

The blonde's head whirled in pain and confusion as he attempted to regain his balance and tried to figure out exactly what happened. His jaw throbbed in pain and he could already feel his cheek swelling, the pressure of the orange goggles pressing down on his face didn't help either.

He had been _punched_. First day here and some ass-hat was already starting shit.

'What the fu-'

Strong, dark hands gripped his blue and white, zippered polo shirt tightly, wrinkling it in the process, and brought the dancer to the other teen's snarling face. Too close for comfort, but then again, there's nothing comfortable about someone larger and helluva alot stronger than you wanting to kick your ass. MacCoy grimaced at the fact that he had ironed this shirt _just this morning_, neverminding the fact that some thug was about to pummel him. Or at least, try.

"I _said_ let's dance-ya lil' queer," the rough voice spat out.

MacCoy's vision cleared and he could see that the face the voice belonged to was full of sharp angles, angry eyes and a nasty smirk teeming with shockingly white teeth that appeared more menacing in contrast to his dark skin. His cold, obsidian eyes glared at the teen and MacCoy couldn't understand why. Why _him_? He was sure there were plenty of dancers here, okay-maybe not male dancers, but the ladies go crazy over men with moves. _Right_? And where the shit were the teachers?

The blond was so close he could almost hear the darker male gritting his teeth.  
>'Homie's breath is rank' he mused. He weighed his options and opted for trying to weasel his way out of this scuffle. The goggled-teen brought his arms close to his chest, snaked them between his attacker's arms, and swung them outwards effectively causing him to lose his grip.<p>

MacCoy bolted.

The crowd grew wild.

'Bunch'a fuckin' animals.'

His assailant ws too quick and yanked him back by his collar. The other male's iron grip crushed his victim's shoulders close to his sides, lifting him up and shoving him hard against the faded lockers all the while laughing at his failed attempt. Their audience grew louder.

"Ah, shit." MacCoy hissed in pain.

He heard a sharp crack and the back of his head grew warm. He wondered if that was his skull as the clasp of his goggles dug into the wound. He normally didn't have to fight, when he did he could handle himself, but the blond imagined that this guy must've been a professional fucking football player. MacCoy was a _dancer_, not a body-builder!

"Stop yo' shit, man" a teen with a teal-striped hoodie and forest green shorts stepped into MacCoy's line of vision, behind the crowd, and the grip on his shirt loosened but didn't let go.

'This guy looks so fuckin' cool.' MacCoy thought smugly.

The bully turned around to match a face with the voice he heard and the dancer took this as an opportunity to use his well-toned legs to vault off the lockers, pushing his shoulders foward. The other teen stumbled backwards and MacCoy slumped against the lockers, smearing blood as he went. He braced himself for another blow, but none came. The crowd dispersed, as well as the asshole whose name he still didn't know.

"Yo, man you feelin' aight? Ya don't look so hot," the figure inquired.

MacCoy's muscles tensed up again, ready for a fight now. The adrenaline was still coursing through his body and he wasn't caught off guard this time. He shot up quickly, perhaps too quickly, and glared at his target daring him to move. His vision swam. He was dizzy and was it freezing or what? His step faltered and he felt himself beginning to fall. His face didn't meet-and-greet with the floor like he had expected, someone caught him, someone warm.

Someone _incredibly_ warm.

MacCoy woke up to the sound of a machine beeping, one that wasn't hooked up to him-thankfully-and found a face half-obscured by a familiar hoodie grinning down at him like an idiot.  
>"Sup." The voice piped in cheerfully.<br>His stomach flopped and he was pretty sure it was a direct result of the painkillers he was _probably_ taking.

"Name's Mo. I helped ya out a bit back there, even though you looked like ya wanted ta knock my teeth in. That guy that roughed you up a bit back there? That was Malcolm." Mo stated airily.

'Roughed me up a _bit_?' Considering the neighborhood Maccoy lived in now he figured it could've been worse. Much worse. This guy sure was cheery about the whole situation.

MacCoy tried to find his voice.

Mo earned a groan in response from the teen in the hospital bed, apparently he hadn't found his voice. He was weak and groggy from his injury. MacCoy made another effort to speak, but was promptly cut off by the grinning figure.

"Nah, man. S'all good. got yer ID outta yo' wallet, n' 'fore ya try n' say anythin' I didn't steal nothin'. Ya flat broke anyways. Ya want some water?" he asked with a grin.  
>MacCoy noted that he talked alot, but was somewhat relieved because his mouth tasted like <em>shit<em> and he didn't want to know what it _smelled_ like. The pale teen gave Mo a lopsided grin when he handed him a mint and water while helping him to sit up.

'It's like he can read minds.' MacCoy thought while taking in his surroundings.  
>The room was plain and boring, like all hospital rooms usually are, the only things that were adding color were the darker teen's bright clothes and the solemn, yellow-stained blotch corner that suspiciously looked like it was either previously pissed or vomited on.<p>

His grin fell when he sipped his water and half of the cup's contents spilled out onto his paper gown, causing the gown to cling to his chest and Mo to fidget nervously. Tearing his eyes away from the blond's damp chest Mo found that the drawstrings on his hoodie had become the most interesting things in the universe, not that the now transparent "fabric" clinging to the contours of the dancer's near-flushed torso wasn't interesting. It just made him feel like an asshole, staring at some beat up dude from school lying in a hospital bed. He had saved his bacon, but _still_.

The blond cursed under his breath trying, in vain, to blot out the water that was slowly destroying his paper gown with the starchy blankets on the hospital bed. The water continued to grow, expand, just fucking consume his damn gown is what it seemed and MacCoy decided to just suck it up and deal with it.

Mo regained his mirth and snickered quietly to himself, tilting his head down slightly as to hide his apparent grin, but it seemed the boy wasn't paying his much attention anyways. His grin turned more devilish as he watched the other dancer take another sip, causing more water to spill out onto his chest. The other B-boy cursed again, loudly this time, while mo bit his lip until bursting into maniacal fits of laughter.

"Laugh it up, man. Ain't funny." he grumbled and failed to see what was so damn hilarious. Today was really not his day.  
>"Yea. Yea, it is. Ya got a whole in yo' lip or sometin'?" Mo managed to choke out.<p>

Realization dawned upon MacCoy.

"Oldest damn trick in the book, dude. Cuttin' holes all up in a cripple's cup! S'wrong wit'cha?" MacCoy replied good-naturedly crumpling up the paper cup and tossing the ball at the other teen's hoodie'd head. Mo caught it and flung it uncerimoniuosly into the wastebasket across the room while casting MacCoy a cheeky grin. He didn't miss his mark and the paper plopped in with a light thud.

Soon both boys were beaming and howling with laughter. The joke wasn't that funny but it just seemed right to laugh at that moment in time with his new friend. Mo made him feel at ease and MacCoy was able to ignore the pain in his swollen cheek from laughing so hard.

'His smile is contagious' the blond thought, popping the mint into his mouth and sighed happily when a burst of mint invaded his taste buds.

Their laughter died down and the settled for simply staring at each other in a rather comfortable silence. Something was exchanged between the two of them and neither knew what yet. It was something rather delicate.  
>"So, wanna tell me why I'm lying here in this dinky ass hospital bed?" MacCoy was the first to break the silence. Mo eyed him strangely and MacCoy almost regretted speaking, not because he was afraid but because he felt he'd ruined something in that moment.<p>

"Small fry name Malcolm jumped yo' ass from behind, what I heard. Knocked yo' head into the lockers a couple times, got yo'self some stitches. Ain't as bad as it could be. He was still on ya when I stopped 'im. He don't really need a special invitation to fuck wit' people. It comes naturally, like a rabid animal that needs to be shot. An' don't worry, he ain't gonna screw wit' ya again, so don't sweat it." There was a mischievious glint in his eyes and a quirk in his smirk that would set some people off. MacCoy didn't seem to notice.

"What makes ya say that, Mo?" MacCoy chuckled.  
>Mo's tone went rigid, body stiffening, mouth set in a tight line, "I said don't sweat it, aight?"<br>Seeing the boy's near-upset and confused expression Mo winked at him, "I ain't mad, 'Coy. Jus'...let it go." MacCoy nodded and realized that from this angle he could barely make out the upper portion of the darker boy's face. He smiled when he had winked at him, it made him feel special, made him feel like that wink was some sort of rare treat since Mo's face always seemed hidden by his hood. He took a deep liking to his nickname too although he couldn't fathom why.

In wonderment his fingers crept to the back of his head. He flinched. Ironic how an injury didn't hurt until a person either confirmed it for themselves or someone drew attention to it. A broad-set stitched gash lined the middle of his head, shooting across diagonally. Lucky for him they hadn't the need to shave his hair. He'd die. MacCoy wasn't vain, but he loved his hair. He frowned at the thought of how stupid he'd look and how many more ass-kickings would come his way; kids in school were like that.

MacCoy ceased his musings when a warm hand swatted his own away and deft fingers faintly traced the area around the stitches while curling his golden, feathery locks between them. Mo raised his other hand and calloused fingers danced towards his jaw, his thumb slowly trailed his busted, lower lip before gliding gently over his swollen cheek. MacCoy let out a soft sigh and leaned into the touch. Mo's right hand, stroking the blonde's hair, crept down his neck lightly squeezing.

MacCoy shuddered and Mo leaned in.

"Mr. MacCoy? You can leave now, you're all checked out." A shrill voice interrupted them.

Mo abruptly straightened himself and jerked his hands away like he was caught stealing, deeply noting MacCoy's half-lidded gaze and flushed cheeks. He filed this information away for later.

The nurse hadn't appeared to notice and continued on with their rounds. And taxpayers paid for this sort of treatment?

MacCoy blamed his behavior on his medication.  
>Mo blamed it on MacCoy's adorable features and attitude.<p>

"Eh hehe. Got'cha" Mo chuckled nervously, fiddling with his drawstrings.  
>"Yea. I'm a real sucker." MacCoy mumbled tossing Mo a half-hearted smirk.<br>Mo blushed. His train of thoughts de-railing at some town called 'Perv-dom' and he inwardly scolded himself. The silence that followed this time was an uncomfortable one. It wasn't a joke. They both knew this.

Clearing his throat the blue-eyed teen broke the silence again. Mo was grateful.  
>"Guess I better hit the road..." The blond trailed off.<p>

A short silence.

"Want me ta walk ya?" Mo offered, shifting on his feet uncomfortably still twirling his drawstrings.  
>Dark blue eyes brightened at this. "Hell yes! I bet my Grandma's whipped up some of her homemade zalvyne. You gotta try it, man! Real good, lemme tell ya!" he ranted excitedly.<p>

Mo grinned wildly. "Aight." He noted that he didn't know what zalvyne was either, or if it even existed, but was relieved that he wasn't missing a couple of teeth.


	2. Discovery

**This is so long. Youcannotfathom. It took me forever to type this up. I've been so caught up in AngeCoy that I've been neglecting poor Mo. lolwut? Reviews inspire meee, especially BellaSnow's. Your initials are BS, btw. lolshot You guys needa write some DC fics, yo. MacCoy approves.**

**I mentioned his Atari**

**Enjoy my asshole-ish line breaks. Word count? 7,241. ohmymartel.**

**disclaimer: I dont own these characters, yo. They belong to Harmonix and hopefully those awesome peeps enjoy fanfiction. Even if its just for laughs.**

Amber eyes glanced up to find a face, wondering if it's neighbor's ministrations were a success. MacCoy was slumped against his headboard haphazardly in the dim glow of a cheap nightlight meant to fend off ghouls and goblins in stories from his younger years. His cheeks were flushed and his sweatband was tossed somewhere unplanned, allowing golden bangs to cling to his forehead. Orange goggles fogged up due to his erratic panting, goggled head rolling against the wood he was leaning on. Red welts decorated his otherwise pale neck and chest, his slim hips thrusting up from the mattress.

Gripping the back of Mo's hoodie desperately, teeth clenched in anticipation, "Ah. C-come on. Almost there, mn."  
>A strong hand pushed his hips back down and held them in place, the other teasing his base. Mo let out a low hum of approval, thoroughly satisfied with himself and the noises the blond was emitting. 'Coy tensed, toes curling and uncurling, his feet kicking at the sheets. The feeling was unbearable. MacCoy came hard, spasms rocking his body until he fell still.<p>

Mo lifted his head, light eyes locking with 'Coy's darker ones. "Ya taste good, 'Coy. So damn sweet," he breathed. He made show of licking his lips and the stylehead could smell himself on the other's breath.

MacCoy bursted awake with a light sheen of sweat on his brow and sticky boxers. He groaned in distress and ran a clean, shaky palm, the one that wasn't currently gripping dirty sheets to his crotch, through his slightly damp hair to help soothe his mind of his dream.  
>He felt shame, guilt, and a tinge of disgust pool in the pit of his stomach. The blond could probably chalk it up as hormones and although it felt incredible in his dream he didn't feel too well when he woke up.<p>

He wiped his moist hand on his boxers and picked at a loose thread while his eyes flickered t his alarm clock. It read 4:30 back to him in bright red sticks and he _sooo_ did not want to get up.  
>After arguing with himself about which was more important; cleanliness or a few extra hours of sleep on the weekend he noticed that a shower was more appealing. He might dream up something worse.<p>

MacCoy shakily made his way to the bathroom, still a bit shocked by the dream.

Redressing he noticed the blooming bruises puffing around his shoulders and upper arms, the warm water temporarily distracted him from them. He poked at them and the pain wasn't unbearable but it wasn't pleasant either. His back was sore and the swelling in his cheek reduced down quite a bit, still retaining an ugly purplish color. The blonde's body healed overnight but it was still sore, like when a person runs a mile and sits directly afterwards.

His head bowed and hanging lazily he turned to the sink to brush his teeth, however, the head of the brush kept poking painfully at his cheek when he tried scrubbing his molars. Frustrated with the pain and the events of the past few days, anger and other swirling emotions he didn't understand, he threw the toothbrush.

"God damnit.", he cursed in a hush, careful not to wake his Grandma. She needed her rest, despite her spunk, which was why MacCoy didn't phone her for a ride at the hospital. Besides, he was basically an adult, even if he swooned over comic books and snacking on apple juice and graham crackers.

She questioned him repeatedly and after an hour of "Im fine" and "No, Grammaw. Ya don't hafta beat anyone up for me" she finally relented. She wobbled away grumbling about buying more bran cereal.

The toothbrush clattered behind the faucet, dancing between the knobs and spraying bits of foamy spit before falling still. MacCoy jerked the tap on and brought his mouth down to the cold stream of water, relishing the soothing affects, then spat angrily.

Finally lifting his head up, he studied his face. His features were a bit blurry and he sighed. His poor vision was something that he hated about himself. While he usually lazed round on Saturdays he decided that he really needed to go for a jog, to clear his head. For that, he needed his goggles.

He checked the places that he usually set them down-on his dresser, the nightstand, sometimes hanging on his doorknob. He could not find them anywhere.  
>"Where the fuck are they?"<p>

He started to panic and checked odd places like between his mattress, under the lampshade, and on the fire escape outside his bedroom window. Even the most ridiculous places to search were deemed A-OK when someone freaked out this much.

The toprocker slouched against his wall, knocking his head against the wall and grieving.  
>'I couldn't have lost them. No way. Fuck!'<br>He wasn't going to cry, he was raised to be stronger than that because 'real men don't cry', so he chose to do the next best thing. Ironically enough, that was dancing.

The blond popped in small orange headphones and pumped up the volume on his walkman, he preferred cassette tapes so he could preserve that old school vibe he adored so greatly. He usually mixed his own tapes too, in the complicated fashion of course, but sometimes the music was a bit 'newer'.

He began shuffling after a few missed beats, trying to obtain a feel for the music, and soon started clapping his hands. After a clap he shimmied his shoulders, saddling up to an invisible body, and grinned wildly. He pursed his lips and bobbed his head to the sound. The beat was fairly simple and his dancing felt goofy.

He almost forgot what had him so upset in the first place, almost.

The song changed and MacCoy closed his eyes, inhaling deeply while relishing the slow grooves. The blond slowly swayed his hips, swinging them in a hypnotic fashion. Starting at his navel, he trailed his fingers up his frame, flung them above his head with a wicked flourish, and snapped his hips-jerking them forwards twice. Orange goggles were missing, leaving his quick fingers free to work their way through his hair. Facing skyward he let out a low hum and gyrated his hips three times in rapid succession then thrice more, much more slowly this time. His stance inched wider with every roll.

Leaning back he worked his shoulders in an elliptical pattern; the slow pulsing of the tune speeding up, rising higher and higher with his heartbeat. The music finally exploded into a frenzy of untamable bass notes that pumped adrenaline through his body. He sprang up quickly, changing his stance again, and began shadowboxing. He twisted his body with each uppercut and bobbed to every jab.

The song was started forming a sluggish finish, almost powering down it seemed, until a trickle of keyboards and xylophones died out. MacCoy ended with a large smile on his face, mimicking what he believed to be the correct notes the musician would hit as the melody stopped.

Leaning on his knees, to catch his breath, he shifted the sweatband on his forehead. The sweat was making him a bit itchy so this was how he sometimes found relief. He didn't care it all that much, a perk to being male, and toweled off. MacCoy flung the soggy article to some random place and ruffled his damp hair.

He peered around his around, fingers curling over the cheap "wooden" paneling, and found that his Grandma was enjoying an old Western show on TV. He didn't understand how people could watch these.  
>"Mornin' Grammaw," he smiled, pecking her on the cheek.<br>"Good morning, handsome," her gaze was still glued to the screen. His heart floated at her statement, like all Grandma's boy's hearts do.

"Mind if I chill with ya, Grams?" he asked, flopping down on an old, floral-printed couch. His arms laying useless next to his body.  
>"Why? Are you cold?'" she turned to him confused, a bit of worry etched on her face.<br>"Ah, no. I want to watch TV with you, Grammaw." He chose his words carefully, biting back the slang he was so accustomed to using.  
>She turned and smiled at him, lips curling above her gumline, "You're already here."<br>Her smile made MacCoy appreciate his youth and teeth.

MacCoy swung his arms over the head of the couch and shimmied his ass deeper into the cushions as he attempted to comprehend what idiocy was occurring on the screen in front of him. Then he kicked himself, mentally, in the ass. He couldn't really see anyways and the men were just blurry, bright blobs. So, he closed his eyes and listened.

Apparently, a new woman moved into the small Western town, one of those prissy, Southern-belle types, and she had all the men shooting each other over her.  
>'This show beats,' he thought, tapping his fingers against his palms.<br>He tried to talk his Grandmother into changing the channel but his efforts were unfruitful. The blond decided to suck on his cheek and allowed his mind to absorb the television's "dangerous rays".

"Hm. Well, it was sweet chillin' with ya, Grams. Imma go grab some grub and go...stare at my ceiling or somethin'," he mumbled boredly.  
>"Put a sweater on!" She scolded, frowning at him, and her large glasses rose high on her face. He held in a laugh and nodded.<br>Standing slowly MacCoy stretched out like a cat, trekking to the small kitchen. At least, the tiny corner dubbed a kitchen.

His smile vanished when he realized how low on groceries they were. An angry stomach growled in disapproval and he patted it. "Watch it, babe."  
>The blond would need to leave for groceries pretty soon and he was extremely antsy about facing the world without his shield and eyesight.<p>

MacCoy spotted an apple, or what appeared to be a blurry red in a bowl, and he tested it with a sniff. It could've have been wax and he didn't want to relive that memory.  
>'Smells like an apple.' He shrugged to himself and took a bite, wiping the juice dribbling down his chin with his wrist. The toprocker made his way to his bedroom bouncing to an unheard beat and munching on his fruit.<p>

Laying around and fiddling with his old Atari seemed like an easy enough activity so that's what he shot for. Ping and Pong never seemed to be anymore challenging than it was now. Blue eyes burned from staring at the black background and thick, white sticks. MacCoy groaned, agitated with the game already, and was ready to throw the controller until a pair of ocean blue shorts blocked his view of the bright screen.

His gaze followed up to a happy face he was quite familiar with. ''Coy's body locked up and his heart thrummed. He felt guilty, along with another emotion he wasn't able to identify, about last nights dream. Finally facing his demon had spooked him.

The others cute smile faded. "Ya doin' aight? Ya don't look too happy ta see me."  
>The dancer swallowed thickly, realizing that the expression on his face must not have been all that pleasant. "I'm always happy ta see ya, man. I'm fine. I just ain't feelin' like a champ right now."<br>Mo's shoulders drooped, "Ya don't sound 'fine'," voice peppered with concern.

'Did I do somethin'? Shit, this 'bout yesterday?' Mo frantically wracked his brain for excuses to explain his behavior from Friday.  
>MacCoy made an odd noise in his throat, like he was about to say something but thought better of it.<br>"I jus' had a weird dream, s'all it was," the B-boy breathed all at once.  
>Mo sensed the apple he ate from earlier, the scent still lingering, and he fought the urge to wet his lips.<br>"Did...did ya jus' eat an apple or what?"  
>MacCoy nodded slowly, unsure as to what that had to do with anything they were talking about.<br>"It smells sweet."

'Ya taste good, 'Coy. So damn sweet.'

If the blond's muscles had relaxed at all they would have tensed up again.  
>'C'mon, kept it fresh. Keep it fresh.' mentally chanting his own, personal mantra.<br>Mo missed MacCoy's expressions, having closed his eyes to indulge in a quick fantasy.  
>MacCoy's deep exhale and shifting broke Mo out of his dirty daydream and he finally remembered why he was there in the first place.<p>

"Anyways," he started, trying to kill the white elephant standing in the room, "I got ya somthin'. Sorta. Sorry 'bout the paper."  
>He reached into the tiebag he was toting and revealed a small box wrapped in Christmas paper adorned with reindeer and snowflakes.<p>

"Haha! No way! I love Christmas in July. Err, September. Thanks, homie," the younger gushed, smiling so hard that Mo thought his face would split in two. Mo let out a great breath of relief.  
>Nimble fingers hastily ripped away at the poor paper, not bothering to fold it neatly for use later-much like Mo's family did during the holidays.<p>

The teen nearly choked on a sharp intake of breath. There in the box, the clasp tenderly repaired with white tape and surrounded by a pink halo of tissue, laid his precious goggles.  
>"This be some Harry Potter shit," he commented while admiring the white stripe, running his thumb over the thick rims and placing them on his face. The tape wasn't between the eyepieces, but the reference was still endearing.<br>Mo waved his index through the air and pointed it at ''Coy's goggles. "Occulus reparo!" Neither could believe that he actually remembered the line and laughed with some sort of nerdy glee.

"Thanks again." MacCoy flashed him a genuine smile, a truly happy smile. Mo made a mental snapshot of it, never knowing when he'd see it again.  
>The stylehead would have hugged the darker teen if not for the awkward, unsettled feeling still in his gut.<br>"S'cool. They had ta take 'em off fer the stitches, I dunno how yer wearing 'em. I thought I'd fix 'em fer ya. How those bruises and shits doin'?" Mo let out a nervous laugh, as if to punctuate his awkward ramble.

The blond shook his head, smiling still, "Oh they're fine. I'm holdin' up too, in case yer curious."  
>Mo let out a simple laugh, fiddling with a loose piece of lint in his pocket. "Ya want ta go eat somethin'?" he blurted suddenly.<br>"Aw, yeah! I'm starvin'. All I ate was that apple," he replied getting up.  
>"No wonder ya need some meat on them bones." Mo teasingly pinched his forearm and enjoyed that contact far more than he thought he would.<p>

'Coy snorted. "Ya sound like Grams." 'Coy flung off his green tanktop and it landed on Mo's feet, who kicked it off and avoided the sight of the other's back.  
>"Who's that?" Mo laughed, already knowing the answer. It was who let him in, obviously.<br>"It's my Grammaw. Shuddup. Can we go now? " 'Coy mumbled embarrassed, scratching at his cheek.

**oh holy fuck its a line break cuz i don't have microsoft word to type with**

The walk to the fast food joint down the street by MacCoy's apartment was a quick one, probably because they were so busy laughing and shoving to notice how far of a journey it actually was.  
>They ordered their food and sat in a booth by a faux brick wall with fake ivy spilling over each side. The stylehead laughed at another of Mo's lame puns and flicked one of the leaves on the strand of poser plant. It broke off and the two boys exploded into laughter, snorting and giggling. Fumbling with the leaf MacCoy hurriedly tried to pop it back onto the nub it belonged to.<p>

They spoke a bit about themselves while waiting on their greasy food, which usually took the employees forever and a day to prepare despite how poorly it tasted and the irony of the name.

MacCoy told him of his life in Russia as a child and how he moved to America after his parents died. He lived with his aunt for a short time, nearly falling in with the wrong crowd, before moving to America to live with his Grandma. Being an only child, the blond always wished for a younger brother a sister to take care of. A flurry of information about his absolute love for hiphop and breaking came next.

"We gotta have a battle dude. Fuckin' tight. Style?"  
>"Sure, man. I base my style on those ultra fresh toprock moves, but I put my own sweet zaps in it!" MacCoy replied, equaling Mo's excitement with nerdy bliss.<br>Mo leaned back into the leather booth and crossed his arms over his chest smirking. "Toprock moves versus powerhouse? Thats some heavy shit, 'Coy. So, what's the deal with those goggles?" Mo inquired, glancing up to the checkout counter to see that the staff still hadn't made any progress.

MacCoy adjusted them on his face. "I actually rock these babies fer a reason. These are some pretty neat-o prescription glasses. I'm kinda far-sighted." It wasn't horribly bad, yet, things were just slightly blurry up close and it made him feel weak and at a disadvantage-which was a feeling he wasn't too fond of.

"Ya could wear contacts." Mo pointed out.  
>"I could but...then Id be like everyone else. 'Sides, these're ski goggles my Pops made me. We went on this trip, right 'fore they passed, and I jus' fell in love with skiing. I dig sports in general, but y'know, nothin like speedin down a giant white hill. That's kinda when my vision got all funky anyways. One of a kind, homes," he finished proudly, fidgeting with them again.<p>

Mo was amazed that something odd like a pair of ski goggles could actually be used as functional, everyday eyewear. He offered unnecessary consoling for the passing of ''Coy's parents and was unsure of what to say when MacCoy asked him about himself. He dabbled in their previous conversation about breaking but decided that itd be fair if he opened up like the Russian.

Mo told the MacCoy about how he was born and raised in Brooklynn. He moved around a bit, but not much.  
>"It's really jus' my Ma, sisters, and me. Dad's a deadbeat, he bailed when my youngest sister was born."<br>"What an ass. I adopt one of your sisters though!" They both chuckled at this.  
>Mo continued to ramble about his music taste. He loved all sorts of music, he actually meant all music and not just the genres he was picky about like most people, but his favorite seemed to be Rap and R&amp;B. The tagger defended Run DMC mercilessly when MacCoy raged about how 'old skool hip hop died' when they entered the scene. The boy gave him a run for his money. (No awful pun intended.)<p>

He slowly retracted into himself, burying deeper into the booth, and moved his legs away from the delicious heat of the others limbs. Their knees were no longer touching. These movements were subtle he consciously made as he allowed 'Coy to rant about when Will Smith was cool and how he blew it.

Mo knew he could do this.  
>Then he told MacCoy, with a hint of worry and pride in his tone, that somewhere along the way he found out that he liked guys.<br>"So?" MacCoy shrugged, "Quit buggin' cuz yer already my friend. I cant burn ya at the stake now," he added playfully. Mo let out a shaky sigh of relief at this response, this must've been his way of brushing it off. Unless, he really didn't care. It wasn't very often someone could tell a person a secret like this and not receive a sock to the face.

Mo scratched at his pinky with his thumb, a nervous tick he had when he didn't know what else to add to a conversation of this caliber. The prankster silently thanked God that they called out their order. The short time apart repaired the tension and they ate in silence, not because they felt awkward, but because the food was surprisingly good.

'Coy finished eating first and Mo watched intently while he licked the salt from his fries off his fingers. 'Coy caught his gaze and misinterpreted the look. "What? I never let myself eat this junk. It's bad fer ya, but damn was it good."  
>"Want my fries?" Mo offered, shaking the half-filled red and yellow box.<br>"Heck, yes! Yer so nice, Mo. Buyin' me food, bein' my only friend, givin' me yo' fries. Thats friendship," he rambled obnoxiously, greedily grabbing the box and stuffing his mouth.  
>Mo chuckled, he really just wanted to see MacCoy lick his fingers again.<p>

"Now what?" 'Coy asked, popping his pinky free from his mouth and running his tongue over his lips.  
>"Dude. I don't even wanna get up right now," Mo muttered weakly ,still enraptured by the boy.<br>MacCoy didn't notice, still paying special attention to the fry taste lingering on his fingers.  
>He jumped up suddenly and wiped his slobbery hands on a napkin.<p>

"We gotta work this shit off," he stated while pulling at Mo. There was a purpose in his words, he needed to stay healthy and fit. He prided himself on that. Mo groaned as MacCoy finally managed to yank him up and he brushed crumbs from himself. Then he half-heartedly suggested a walk through the park and the other bounced excitedly, shifting on his feet and punching at the air.

**oh holy fuck its another line break cuz i still don't have microsoft word to type with**

After 'Coy began complaining about how he had a stomachache they seated themselves on a bench, shaded by some trees, near a crowd of people gathered around a slim girl in a pink wig. They didn't see her at first, both distracted by MacCoy's overly dramatic groaning. "Aw, man. S'all wack in there," he moaned, pointing at his belly.  
>"Shouldn't have eaten all those fries so fast. So greedy," he teased, smirking devilishly. He motioned for MacCoy to stretch out on the bench.<p>

"C'mere."

The stylehead was hesitant at first, eyes darting around quickly, he did need relief. He shifted his body and laid down on the bench, his feet planted on the ground and his arms were flung over Mo's lap before swinging back to rest his head on a soft thigh. He looked up and was a bit surprised to find that he could fully see Mo's face, instead of the tiny glimmers he usually did, so he stared a bit. He wasn't sure why but he wanted to study it, memorize every feature and curve, because this seemed like a rare moment. MacCoy felt safe, his guard being wholly lifted, and he laid there expectantly-core exposed. (Like a puppy wanting his tummy scratched.)

Mo smiled down at him, pearly whites conquering his features, and he lifted an arm off the back of the bench. The tagger didn't start off bold, he just rubbed circles with his warm palm. ''Coy's polo drifted up slightly, exposing pale flesh and Mo stared at it without shame-wishing so badly to reach out and trace imaginary designs on it, but feared the risk of losing the teen currently in his lap. Instead, he picked up the hem of his shirt, fingertips barely making contact, and moved the cloth back over his temptation. A weird hum escaped the blond's mouth and honey orbs peered down at him to observe his closed eyes. The goggles shifted due to his pleased facial expressions and the prankster experimentally threaded his fingers through golden locks, scratching lightly.

"This must be how a cat feels." 'Coy sighed happily.  
>Mo chuckled, his laughter deeper because his head was in a fog and it sent a strange chill down the other B-boy's spine. MacCoys mind was hazy and every thought seemed to swirl with the other, preventing him from grasping a single one by itself-or any at all for that matter. This was exactly how dancing made him feel, minus the sweating and physical exhaustion.<p>

His eyes snapped open suddenly when Mo's hand creeped higher, his thumb treading a couple of ribs. He was afraid of how far this could go, searching Mo's face for an answer only to find them closed. He questioned the past few days but the toprocker never quite reached a conclusion. A bright flash of color reflected off his goggles and the light caught the corner of his eye, plucking his attention from his ever-growing inner conflict.

He lifted his head towards the crowd and spotted a pink blur whizzing around. That pink blur was attached to a slender body in a black dress with random rectangles of greens and yellows. Her hair cut through the air like razors, the style appeared so sharp to him. Odd heart-shaped glasses adorned her face and MacCoy's heart leapt. How often was it that a person found someone else who enjoyed peculiar eyewear and pulled it off?

She paused for another song to start up, he assumed and made "gimme more" hand signals and a few people stepped up to place money in a cup. She nodded her approval and controlled the atmosphere around her once again through dance.

Mo must've sensed that 'Coy's attention was being directed elsewhere because he stopped, curling his hand on 'Coy's ribcage, gently squeezing. Maybe he could scarcely hint that he still existed. He followed 'Coy's line of vision and mentally cursed.

"Hey, Mo?" Coy asked rolling his head to look at Mo again. "Woah, why'd ya stop?"  
>Mo gave him a hard smile, forcing himself not to grimace at this boy, and continued stroking 'Coy's hair but left his other hand where it was-almost like he was guarding his territory.<br>"Much better. Who's that?" he made a lazy notion with one of his near-forgotten arms.  
>Mo wanted to pretend he hadn't heard.<br>"Thats Dare. Her dancin's pretty tight. A big raver and party queen," Mo explained reluctantly.  
>"Ya know her?" coy asked still enthralled by her movement.<br>"I know everybody." Mo stated matter-of-factly.  
>The tagger sensed that Coy wanted to sit up so he reluctantly moved his arm, but not before dragging his palm across his ribcage, savoring every last bit of contact. MacCoy crushed the butterflies in his stomach with a crunch and Mo retracted his arms back to the back of the bench, letting them hang limp there.<br>"Well I want to know her." Coy explained, adjusting his hair and goggles when he stood up. The blond began his strutting his way over, his cockiness must've left with the crowd too because upon closer inspection she appeared more intimidating and he suddenly felt unsure of himself.

Mo watched from the bench mildly disappointed, if not fuming. He couldn't blame the boy, he was a hormonal teenager who loved chicks, and Dare was eccentric-something guy's his age went crazy over. He chewed on his lip and waited on his verdict, as well as 'Coy's.

Watching how the events unfolded the tagger shamefully brightened when Dare pat MacCoy's cheek and fixed his collar. She had turned him down. His mood quickly soured again when the B-boy turned to him, hunched over, resembling an unloved puppy His insides felt like metal twisting and regardless of his previous selfishness, he could stand to look at a face like that.

"What happened, man?" He bit back the shame in his voice and attempted to sound nonchalant.  
>"Said she wasn't my type. kinda weird cuz, babes usually say I'm not their type," he mumbled, rubbing his arm and chewing his lip.<p>

"Yo." He stood up to throw an arm around 'Coy's drooped shoulders. "Plenty of other ladies, am I right?" He softly shook the distressed teen, as if he were a Magic 8-ball and that's how he would receive an answer.  
>MacCoy exhaled fiercely. "Yer right." He moved from under Mo's touch, feeling a bit smothered. "Let's go fuckin' dancin'."<p>

Despite a guy's sexual preference, a man code still remained imbedded in their being. This situation was, "I'm feelin' rejected. Let's go pick up easy bitches."

"I know a bangin' place." Mo said, not bothering to look at 'Coy and walking ahead.  
>The blond quickly caught up with Mo and punched him, without any force, in the arm. "Thanks, Mo."<br>"Yea." Mo replied, disengaged and softly tapping him back.

**oh holy fuck why did i do another line break? cuz i felt like it and i still dont have microsoft word**

Upon entering the dark, glitter tainted club MacCoy felt as though he were in heaven, if heaven consisted of floozies, booze and ass-grinding music, and his worries melted into a puddle at the doorway. Bodies seemed to become one large entity and the Russian couldn't wait to join the mass of sweating limbs. This was what helped him in life, this made bullshit he didn't want to deal with go away. The club was dark and the atmosphere remained heavy, nearly suffocating, and the combined body heat was almost unbearable.

He felt a warm hand on the small of his back. "We rolled up in here together, we roll out together."  
>"Yea, yea." He waved Mo off, the blacklight illuminating his smile. He strolled up to a group of chicks giggling amongst themselves and asked one if she wanted to dance; he left with a noirette in a tight purple dress, her tits hanging out. MacCoy shot the other a hidden thumbs-up sign and cheesy grin, he was such a dork, and chased after the girl leading him deeper into the crowd.<p>

Mo seethed, he just couldn't catch a break. Moving, or half-heartedly dancing, his way through the ocean of sweaty partygoers he finally managed to find the couple.  
>"'Ey, <em>papi<em>," a smooth voice purred into his ear, like velvet in sound. Arms snaked around his middle and a body swayed with his. He registered the voice but glanced down to to count rings and their placement and reconfirmed his suspicions.  
>"What'cha doin' 'ere, Angel? Ain't exactly yo' scene." He growled the words out, almost inaudibly, and the man wedged his cheek close to hear.<br>"Aubrey wanted to go out, then she ditched me to crash a lame Bachelorette party."

Mo snorted, snarling his response, "So?" Mo kept his eyes focused on the blond, the noirette was rubbing her ass on him and the toprocker looked like he was about to pass out. Mo clenched his jaw tight.  
>And it get's so lonely back at the estate without you around anymore. All work and no play, where's the fun in that?" He murmured, his cheek pressing harder against Mo's hood. His fingers danced over slim hips and he worked them under Mo's hoodie.<p>

"Nigga, ya do plenty 'a playin'." Mo wasn't sure why he didn't just move away or push him off. He told himself that there was still a score to settle. Angel chuckled, deep laughter and hot breath invading Mo's senses, and he dipped his middle digit in the darker's navel, a wet tongue darting out to lick the shell of his ear. The tagger's knees wobbled but he was still content with concentrating on the blond.

"Besides," his thumb gliding over his happy trail, "I spotted you with some eye candy. A pretty _gringito_ with blond hair. _¿Dónde está él? _Ah. He's over there, hm."

Mo tore away shaking, unsure if it was a direct result of Angel's ministrations or his sudden vexation. His back was to 'Coy now. "Don't ya fuckin' talk ta him. Or touch 'im."

Angel ignored his angry tone and unspoken threats and tilted his head back, as if regarding him with intense focus. "You always were territorial. You need to make your mark, Flash."  
>"He wouldn't go fer someone like ya." Mo quipped, flinching at his street name.<br>The Puerto Rican smiled, "He wouldn't even look at you if he knew what you did. I know you, you're going to crash and burn." Mo's mouth twisted up in disdain and he glared over Angel's shoulders.

" _Pero_, tell me", he started and quickly snagged the tagger's belt loops, pulling him close, "have you _fucked_ him yet?" He drew the question out and Mo felt his head spin.  
>"No," Mo admitted rather easily, perhaps mostly to himself.<br>The Latino moved closer to his face, "He looks like a screamer, huh?" Angel bore a dangerous grin on his face and searched the area behind the darker male for MacCoy.

"Angel. Shut the fuck up. I ain't like ya," he countered and watched as the Hispanic raised a brown brow in amusement. "Ya know what? Ya look like a fuckin' glowstick wit' yo' dumbass walkin' up in here in a suit like ya _own the place_."

The pure white suit lit up under the blacklight and did, in fact, glow eerily like a glowstick. Mo's comeback was a pathetic one, that evolved into a lowblow.

"Hey. Don't hate on the threads cuz you haven't had a good lay since me." Angel spat, wholly offended, pushing Mo away.  
>The two men stood there sizing each other up. Angel's jaw wound tight, pokerface almost crumbling, and he scowled at Mo before making a sound of disgust then turning and walking away. He disappeared somewhere into the crowd, sweat-slicked bodies swallowing him up.<br>"Pussy!" Mo called out after him, heavy bass drowning out his words. He swallowed hard and his saliva went down like acid and tacks. He wanted to wash it down with a drink.

A cold, hard fuckin' drink.

"Wanna dance?" A soft hand gripped playfully at his. He turned to decline but burning amber met glazed sapphires. He hoped the boy was drunk and not high, like he looked.  
>MacCoy's thick hair was a mess, countless girls running perfect hands through it, telling him that it would look better if he styled it "wilder" or didn't brush it at all. His lips were puffy and tinted a slight red, for obvious reasons, and a bright violet lipstick stain adorned his disheveled collar. His eraser-colored sweatband held numerous slips of paper with digits and tiny hearts written on them. Mo attacked him with his eyes and found him sexy this way, so disinhibited, if not for the obvious signs of other people touching him.<p>

Frustrated with himself, his experiences with MacCoy over the past few days, and Angel's unexpected visit he let all his inhibitions loose.  
>"Yea, I'll show ya a real good time."<br>'Coy's drunken laughter bubbled out and Mo shook his head with a forced smile. He took his hand and led him deeper to the dancefloor, indifferent to his surroundings.

The neon streams of aqua, pink and lime green lights vanished suddenly and where quickly replaced by white flicker lights. A glow from a soft yellow and harsh purple lights that changed continuously accompanied them. Pop music was exchanged for Hard Electro and the spastic beats brought life to the lights and made the already dense air heavier with wet emotion.

Perfect weather for denim fucking.

Mo was hardly interested in dancing, desiring sexual release and the terrible need to vent.  
>Pulling MacCoy closer to him they danced together but never touched, something that nearly made Mo lose control but helped keep him in check. The toprocker's movements were slowed due to his intoxication but they didn't dull his sense, something else heightened his taste and touch. Barely able to stand on his own he leaned back into Mo's more-than-welcoming arms, face heating up when something hard poked at the cleft of his ass. The dream he had earlier came to mind and he wiggled back experimentally, gasping when Mo pushed back vigorously. The two danced this way, both enjoying the warmth, Mo relishing the fristion and MacCoy's head reeling from the new sensations.<p>

'Coy's head dipped back back to land on the other B-boy. The taller kissed the junction between neck and shoulder, inhaling the scent that belonged to MacCoy hidden under the alcohol and perfume.  
>"Mm. Right there, babe."<br>Mo smiled and his eyes caught sight of 'Coy's collar again. The violet stain mocked him. His mouth descended to mark the toprocker as his own. He worked his mouth over the glowing flesh, biting and sucking hard, until a red welt turned to a vivid purple. He lifted his head to admire his work, blowing a stream of cool air across the heated skin, appreciating the sounds spilling from 'Coy's throat.

"Mo?" His name came out a near moan and a jolt shot down both their spines.  
>"Hm?" Mo answered, hardly paying attention, his mind a jumbled puzzle.<br>"Ya know that dream I told ya I had?"  
>"Fuck, I guess." His dark honey eyes clenching shut, his hips grinding harder into the boy, hands roaming over slim hips.<p>

"Ahh..Well...it was 'bout ya." 'Coy admitted, alcohol talking.  
>This revived Mo's dead curiousity. "What was it 'bout?" He muttered hotly, slipping both hands under 'Coy's shirt, admiring how finely tuned the muscles there were-like tight coils begging to spring. The goggled dancer gripped his wandering hand, lacing their fingers, and lowered the pair to the hem of his khakis.<p>

"Ya were suckin' me off. Said I tasted good," he paused to wet his dry lips, "Real sweet. Best wet dream I've ever had."  
>Mo ground desperately at this, apathetic of keeping pace with the beat. "I can't handle ya when yer like this, 'Coy," he panted.<br>Then in a pathetic whisper, "What is it 'bout ya, man?"  
>MacCoy moaned.<br>"Ya won't even remember this in the mornin'," he finished sadly.  
>Orgasm conquered him and his body froze before flying into a random fit of shudders.<br>The younger turned around, sporting a drowsy grin on his face. Leaning on one leg and almost toppling over, he loosely wrapped his arms around Mo's neck, pelvis bucking up against Mo's thigh. The darker male offered his knee and MacCoy thrashed against it, his head tucked under Mo's chin. His tongue crept out and pulled a drawstring into his mouth, chewing on it with his molars. The powerhouse guided him, one hand cupping his ass and the other spread out for balance. He buried his face in the blond locks, absorbing the scent of shampoo and sweat, until the other went limp in his arms, shaking and humming.

He dragged them to the bathroom, surprised he had any energy left, and phoned a cab. They needed to leave.

**oh holy fuck this line break is a c-c-c-cock block cuz i still dont have microsoft word**

Mo snuck back into his apartment, although he didn't have to. His mother was working the graveyard shift and his sister's were at his Grandma's. He dropped the blond on his bed and sighed. MacCoy was a hassle when wasted and tired. 'Coy curled up into a ball almost immediately and Mo laughed quietly. He struggled to take the blond's polo off, it reeked of perfume and fruity drinks, but he managed to peel it off and throw it at his hamper. He removed the younger's shoes and hesitated when his thoughts led to taking off MacCoy's pants. He didn't think he could deal with _all that_.

He decided to remove _just_ the belt. Sliding the belt from his loopholes, surprisingly strong arms yanked him down and MacCoy crushed his lips to Mo's briefly before pushing him away, leaving Mo tingling.  
>"Fer the other day," MacCoy explained, alcohol unrooting the problems he didn't want to deal with from the back of his mind.<p>

It would be so easy for them to do something tonight.

Mo sighed loudly and ran his hand over his head, dropping his hood. Glaring at the sky, and whatever was doing this to him, he unzipped his hoodie and lovingly placed it on his doorknob before kicking off his shorts and footwear.

He climbed into bed, after an internal argument about not wanting to sleep on the couch, and covered them both. MacCoy was already asleep, snoring softly, no doubt he'd wake up in a pile of drool. Mo studied his face for awhile, wanting to say a hundred things and thinking a thousand more.  
>He reached over, resisting the urge to cuddle, and brushed a few messy locks from MacCoy's face. The stylehead smile cutely in his sleep before turning over on his back to snore obnoxiously, arm flinging out and nearly smacking Mo in the face.<p>

'Nice.' Mo thought sarcastically, grasping his hand.  
>He fell asleep later than he intended, despite his fatigue, his thoughts still buzzing in his head. The main one being, '<em>How do I explain this one<em>?'


	3. Denial

**This was meant to be a lot longer, but I can't seem to finish it. Here's a snippet for everyone that wanted it. Plot? Almost there. FFFF.**

MacCoy woke up with an angry headache, brains sloshing around his skull like the alcohol he consumed too much of the previous night. He recalls going to a nightclub with Mo and leaving him to dance with a hot babe who had black hair. Her name might've been Charlotte or Claire-something with a 'C', maybe. 'Coy peeled his eyelids back slowly, quickly shielding and covering his blues when light burned them like acid. He clutched his head in pain, hands twisting in a nappy bedhead to distract him from the awful pulsing.

Scoping his surroundings the hung over teen realized that he wasn't in his bedroom and _definitely_ not in his bed. He grinned at the thought of what might have happened with _CharClaireLotte_, whatever her name was, last night. When he felt around for his goggles and slipped them back on he came to the dark realization that he was in a guy's room. Long shorts and wife beaters littered the floor, basketball trophies for a male's team lined a dark bookshelf and the room definitely didn't smell like it belonged to a female. Frantic hands patted at his chest, already knowing his shirt was gone but wanting some clarity and he ripped the blankets from his lower half to reveal his khakis. MacCoy let out a tense sigh of relief, but consciously checked his mouth for any unusual flavor—besides the disgusting aftertaste of last night's drinks. Anxious eyes spotted a familiar teal-striped hoodie on the doorknob and he smiled in appreciation.

_'Nice guy musta taken me home wit' 'im. Like I'm a stray puppy or somethin'.'_

The last thing he remembered from last night was plopping down on a squishy couch with soft bodies pressing against him, lips whispering into his ears and caressing his bruises. He was more than surprised when _Claire_ led him to a secluded area, where her other friends headed off to for drinks. Even more astounding was how instead of shunning the boy for his seemingly wimpy injuries and dorky attire the girls hovered over him cooing and batting their lashes. His usually pale face darkened considerably and he swiped his palm over his cheeks in hopes of removing his crimson blush.

In the middle of his hormonal musings someone entered the room, someone he was understandably expecting. Mo walked in with blackened toast and a couple bottles of the generic version of Gatorade, "Mornin', Sunshine. Here."  
>"Yer so fuckin' loud. What happened, man?" MacCoy complained, frowning.<p>

"Ya went off and did yo' thing. Ya came back ta me all wasted and damaged." Mo explained softly, motioning for him to drink. MacCoy growled at him, refusing to waste energy by picking the bottle up, and Mo twisted the cap (MacCoy twitched at the sharp cracks) and held it to the Russian's lips.

"Drink it like the fish ya were last night," Mo ordered.  
>"Can't. Too tired." MacCoy made a half-hearted attempt at moving his arms, but only barely lifted his shoulders.<p>

Mo sighed, jaw tightening. "Aight, fine."

MacCoy allowed his head to be tilted back and opened his mouth slightly as Mo tipped the bottle, allowing the liquid to flow over a dry tongue and throat. Blue eyes closed and two quick hands clasped the bottle, pinning Mo's hands and attention, and the blond drank greedily. He finished with a deep moan and licked at his lips.

"Fuck. I'm thirsty. What flavor was that?" MacCoy inquired, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  
>Mo nearly crushed the bottle in shock and cursed himself for not wearing his hoodie. "Um. Red?"<br>MacCoy smirked, "I thought that was a color. My bad."

Mo hadn't laughed like he had hoped, in fact; the darker teen didn't smile the whole time he was standing there. "The hell, Mo? Yer usually all smiles an' shit," the blond nagged, a bit annoyed, and still grumpy, by his friend being a downer.

Mo's eyes widened at the prospect of being caught. MacCoy could _never_ find out. "Ya got a headache and I'm tryin' ta keep my voice in check."

"Don't needa talk ta smile, homie," MacCoy teased, then hissed. Pressing his palm to his covered eye, he quickly flung his eyewear off and massaged at it.

Mo bit his lip in worry, unsure if he should touch the boy or not—though he didn't have much trouble deciding that for the both of them last night. He wasn't all teeth right now not because of what they did because, _fuck_, he wanted that to happen since the moment they'd properly met but because of how the it occurred. It wasn't _as_ fulfilling if only one party enjoys it sober, according to him, and despite the fact that MacCoy should be the one upchucking the B-boy felt he needed to heave the contents of his stomach into chlorine water. Despite his unrelenting guilt, Mo managed to trudge on.  
>"Yer right." Mo flashed him a shining, forged smile and MacCoy barely missed it.<p>

"That was a fake ass smile and my gogs weren't even on." The blond called the other's bluff and fixed his eyesight.

Mo let a genuine grin overcome his face and slowly, as if he were savoring the forming of it, allowed his lips to stretch into a broad smile that he'd been holding back on. The Russian was just too damn adorable. Things were starting to look up again, if only for the moment.

"I love yer smile," MacCoy admitted proudly and Mo shifted around, thankful for MacCoy's dimmed senses. The color on his cheeks and nose was creeping down to his neck; Mo raised a palm to rub the forming goose bumps away.

"Thanks."

MacCoy groaned, he shouldn't have been talking as much as he was, but Mo was just so interesting. "Was it even worth it?" It was a rhetorical question he didn't expect to actually be answered, referring to his running off with _Charlotte_.

"I think so," Mo mumbled quietly.  
>"Why's that? Got me outta yo' hair?" 'Coy asked good-naturedly and Mo squirmed in his skin.<p>

"Ya got alotta digits." Mo pointed out; waving his finger at the slips of paper he figured he should've destroyed earlier. _Shittiest save ever._

MacCoy half-chuckled, nearly beaming at this new-found information, if he didn't presently look like a complete train wreck, "Dare don't know what she's missing."

Mo nodded in agreement. 'Sure don't.'

"Well, its noon already and I smoothed things out with yo' Grammaw. Wanna take a shower and head home or somethin'? Ya look pretty rough."

MacCoy scowled at Mo's teasing and sniffed himself, immediately regretting it.

MacCoy stepped out of the shower and was pleased to find a light grey tank top and a pair of beige shorts waiting for him on the bed. The shorts were a bit baggy on his waist and he had to grip the fabric to his hips to prevent it from slipping down. He quickly redressed and padded outside the bedroom. A short hallway connected Mo's room to the rest of the house. Pictures of perpetually smiling visages lined the walls and MacCoy admired every last one of them. He reached a pale hand out and traced the frame of one in particular; it was of Mo as a small child, maybe seven or eight and he sat on a tattered carpet smashing dinosaurs together. One was green and the other an impossible purple. The geek smiled and his fingertips lingered for a moment before he continued down the hall.

The Russian spotted Mo sprawled across the couch with his eyes glued to the television and he leaned against the arm of the couch, "Hey, man. Thanks fer the threads. The shorts are kinda loose but the shirt is tight." Mo turned to address him and eyed him hungrily; taking in the rarely exposed flesh and the clinging contours of the grey shirt he let 'Coy borrow.

"Different body types, I guess'" Mo muttered, eyes reluctantly leaving the other's body.

MacCoy remained standing, completely awkward now that Mo seemed so apathetic about him staying. "Hey, we cool right? I didn't do nothin' ta upset ya did I? Ya look real tense."

The tagger scratched his pinky with his thumb, wishing he could get rid of the other already—the guilt was consuming him. "Nah, yer fine. I just _'ain't feelin' like a champ_, right now.' Mo teased lightly.

Now relieved of his fears, MacCoy laughed, "Naw. Ya look rough, dude, and I'm the one who drank." MacCoy's mood had flopped to completely positive now that he was semi-hydrated and he wasn't all sweaty and shit.  
>Mo shook his head with a small smile in response, "I made ya breakfast but it's kinda already time fer lunch." He blatantly ignored the other's observation.<p>

When the situation permitted, usually whenever it wasn't him on trial, MacCoy didn't like to beat around the bush. If Mo wanted him to go then that's fine. Did they get into a fight? It was time to nip this shit in the ass already. "The hell's wrong wit' 'cha?"

"Nuffin' I'm cool, man." The breaker's word came out in a flurry, surprised that MacCoy jumped straight to the point. The eyes narrowing at him, coupled with a distasteful frown that shouldn't have done what it did to Mo's body, made him aware that the Russian wasn't buying his bullshit.

"Um," he replied oh-so-eloquently when he saw MacCoy move his lips to speak, "sorry, I just woke up too early." Okay, no, _that_ was the shittiest save ever.

With his palms raised in defeat, as though he lost an argument, he laughed lightly—shoulders shaking and all. "Aight. I get'cha. No hard feelin's. I'm a bad guest. Since ya brought me back in one piece, I'll help a guy out. My friends back home prolly woulda left me."  
>Pain laced his last sentence and if Mo wasn't brain-dead at the moment he would've offered some consul. He missed his chance because by the time he caught his bearings, MacCoy was already stalking towards him with that usual cocky gait in his stride.<p>

Towering over him from this particular angle Mo looked so vulnerable and frightened that MacCoy couldn't resist poking fun at him, so he did. Poking turned to the intent to tickle as the aspiring DJ let his fingers hover over Mo's sides. Having the B-boy exactly how he wanted him—eyes closed with a smile on his face, MacCoy tickled him. He had never seen a guy squirm that much in his life. Girls? Sure, but never boys.

Mo's face was caught up in the cutest smiles of glee, his eyes squeezed tight and mouth wide open from laughing so hard. Their laughter bounced around the room as they struggled on the couch trying to see who was more ticklish. MacCoy was totally winning.

"Oh God, okay stop. You, hah, win!" Mo was wheezing, lungs hurting from laughing so hard. His cheeks burned from excessive smiling, but it was a good pain, a welcomed pain.

Pale hands skipped over his torso, leaving bubbly feelings in Mo's belly, and never ceased—except when the powerhouse under the locker ran out of breath, even then he was given an abrupt moment's reprieve. MacCoy, always searching for an advantage, let his fingers glide everywhere, trying to figure out all of Mo's sweet spots. Hands slipped under Mo's shirt and then that's when the '_victim'_ needed to draw the line.

"No way, man. I dig havin' ya underneath me." The words were out too quickly and his face flushed bright pink because he _so_ didn't mean it that way.

Mo's high was taken to a new level, thoughts from last night rushing back and landing straight in his pants. MacCoy's assault had lightened considerably, or maybe it vanished altogether, but Mo was too busy concentrating on willing his forming erection away to care. He couldn't fuck this up, not again. MacCoy's shifting and sneaky hands weren't helping though.

"I didn't mean it in a pervy way or nothin', homie. So, uhh…" MacCoy replied sheepishly, rubbing the heat from his neck. MacCoy relented, retracting his portable tickle monsters back to his sides and seated himself on Mo's belly. Mo was thankful for that. Sitting in silence, letting Mo catch his breath, he felt awkward again—sitting here on his bro's lap peacefully watching the rise and fall of his chest.

"Somethin' on my face?" Mo jested, finally smiling again, much to the blonde's relief.  
>"Only yer ugly mug."<br>"That hurts cuz my Momma says I'm handsome," Mo replied, feigning hurt.  
>"Momma's boy," he teased.<br>"Gramma's boy."

MacCoy stuck his tongue out, fresh out of lame comebacks.  
>"Put that away 'less ya plan on usin' it."<br>Shocked, the blond quickly retracted his tongue and laughed nervously.  
>"Yea, I thought s—"<p>

Mo was silenced by a set of lips curiously pressing to his, noses clumsily smashing together until MacCoy had enough sense to tilt his head. After finally catching his bearings Mo was ready to act, the kiss caught him completely by surprise, but the blond was already pulling away.

"Nah, homie. Come back 'ere, I didn't get enough of ya," the darker B-boy pleaded, similar to the way the Russian whined when he wanted something just out of reach.

Unsure as to what compelled him in the first place, perhaps it was the sense of belonging Mo showered him with, the blue-eyed toprocker leaned in to give Mo a second chance—whom was utterly _thrilled_. Out of sheer excitement, his hands gripped golden locks while teeth nibbled away at a set of chapped lips, asking for permission until he barely managed to slip his tongue in before 'Coy pushed himself from the others tight embrace .

He wore the expression of a spooked deer, even the warmth of Mo's grateful eyes didn't absolve his fear, and he shyly croaked out a, "I don't know why I did that, I'm sorry. I should leave."  
>Mo tried pulling him back down, trying to reason with him and make him understand the fireworks that were popping from every nerve and how he could barely function as the other was struggling to move away from him. He'd been gripping his wrists too tightly, tight enough that MacCoy was cussing at him, and he broke them apart in astonishment.<p>

MacCoy was breathing intensely, stress and confusion had built up to its max, and he was already reaching for the door—leaving too soon. Mo was tripping over the arm of the sofa, the coffee table, _himself_, and hardly noticed the ashtray and lamp clattering from the end table trying to reach the other.  
>"Ya felt it too, right?" he breathed out hastily, wanting MacCoy to know that, if <em>he<em> was in doubt, Mo _absolutely fuckin' loved it._

"I ain't like that," he spat back in defense because, _no_, being a fag wasn't _okay_. Struggling to find himself as a _definitely_ straight man was already hard enough; he didn't need anything crippling his currently shitty reputation any further.

It was tolerable when it was Mo, but not when its him.


End file.
